


His Noble Immobile

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Happily Ever After, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, belly stuffing, fat!Dean, feeder!Sam, mobility issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23230705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: Sam has a thing for big boys. Dean embraces that thing. And there are side-effects he really likes.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	His Noble Immobile

**Author's Note:**

> APOLOGIES! I don't usually go for immobility but some kind soul asked for it, so just take it in (Dean's lack of) stride. This is all fantasy and wildly out-of-character.

Dean knew the day was coming. It was inevitable. He tugs and sucks in his gut but goddammit, he can't shut the shower door.

His copious ass is pressed into the cold, tile corner and the water needles against the side of his face, elbows knocking into the shower stall walls, and this no-tell hotel is too small for so much as a normal sized man, let alone a guy of Dean's current dimensions. He doesn't even know how much he weighs at the moment; all he knows is that he's outgrown yet another pair of jeans, he's got the seat of the Impala cranked back as far as it can go but his sizable middle still brushes the steering wheel, and all he wants is a decent shower but even _that_ seems to be too much to ask. 

Naturally, it's Sam's fault, with his stupid fat fetish and his pleading eyes and his pretty, pretty dick. Sam could get Dean to do anything. Any. Thing. Brothers or not. Case in point: two years ago Sam confessed that he really liked big men. Big, as in portly. Rotund. Downright fat. Well-hung in the belly department. Which, who knew? And Dean, ever accommodating, dove into the kink with generosity. What was getting fat next to fucking your brother, anyways? In for a penny, in for a hundred pounds. Or two. 

Anything for Sam. And Sam's soft pink tongue licking across Dean's exquisitely sensitive nipples.

Alright, so it wasn't like Sam had to whine or bend Dean's arm to get him on-board. Dean liked eating. A lot. And he liked Sam. A lot. And if getting fat meant getting more Sam? There was no contest, Dean would get fat.

At first, it took some getting used to … never feeling hungry because he didn't let himself get that way. He started modestly by keeping chips on hand, or beef jerky or a bag of Hershey miniatures because they were unarguably the best candy. He super-sized his drive-thru orders. Always got the diner pie. Eventually, he grew accustomed to eating three squares a day and a snack before bed. The sensation of fullness and his waistband constantly pinching was a reminder that he was growing for Sam, becoming more … for Sam. Letting his belt out another notch on a weekly basis became no small source of pride. Hell, practically a turn-on. When Dean graduated to flat-out buying bigger sizes? Aw, yeah.

He did hang onto his favorite t-shirts for as long as he could, but then his paunch started popping out the bottom, lapping over his waistband and bouncing for all the world to see, so he reluctantly retired them for larges. Then XLs. Truth be told, he should probably be wearing XXLs but they haven't gotten to the thrift store in a few weeks. Sam always had something else to do with their money, like making a food run. Dean would just have to put up with the squeeze and occasional stare.

Though, now that it happens on the regular and he's putting a minute's thought into it, he begrudgingly likes it when they stare. When Sam caught people staring, he would stare right back. Get all narrow-eyed and smug. Sometimes he'd throw a protective arm across Dean's shoulders when they were walking together and pointedly admire the way Dean's belly wobbled and his shirt rode up. Sometimes he'd slide his hand into Dean's back pocket to rest it on the swell of his ass. Sometimes, if Sam seemed to be feeling really obnoxious, he'd hand-feed Dean whatever they were snacking on (because they were always snacking on something; well, Dean was anyway). On third thought, yeah, let them stare. He'll stick with his XL's.

Dean looks across the tiny bathroom to the mirror just starting to steam up. He carries a lot of his weight in his stomach, it's true, and the whole of it simply engulfs the shower stall. God _damn_ , he really has gotten fat. Dean lets a hand roll across the slippery, dense mound of his middle. Gives it a shake, and the blubber ripples right up to his pudgy moobs. His bellybutton is a deep divot; his love handles are more like love bed pillows. He's got stretch marks intercepting the scars and even his chin has a chin. Sighing, Dean does his level best to wash and strains to bend over and clean up the water on the floor, bumping into the sink and the shower and the toilet, whichever way he turns. It quickly becomes obvious that bending with a gut this large in a space this small is next to useless. Dropping a towel, he uses one foot to mop up the mess. Sam can finish tidying up when he gets back. It'll serve him right; this is all his fault.

By the time Sam returns, Dean has readied for bed in a strategically snug pair of boxerbriefs. They'd had dinner already but were snackless, which was an untenable situation, so Sam had popped out for a food run. He returns bearing a metric shit ton of junk food, all Dean's faves, in addition to an entire apple pie and a pint of ice cream. 

“We don't have a 'fridge in this clap trap,” Dean notes, to which Sam shrugs and states, “Then you'll just have to eat the whole thing, yeah?”

Dean pretends to be annoyed, sighing melodramatically while wedging himself into a creaking chair beside the room's desk, the pie perched on the apex of his paunch. The arms of the chair tuck under a fistful of flank, nice and snug. Won't be much longer until chairs with arms won't be doable anymore.

Sam smirks and loads up the pie with a mountain of french vanilla. He leans over and tongues at Dean's earlobe before offering him the dripping spoon. “Bet you can't finish the whole thing.”

Right. Like Dean has ever lost a challenge. “Bet you can't blow me.”

They know they're both liars. 

Dean slowly, teasingly, slides heaping spoonfuls of pie a la mode into his mouth, to the point his cheeks are bulging full. He keeps up the rhythm like the champ he is, groaning in painful satisfaction as the pie disappears. Sam half-heartedly eats a little of the left-over ice-cream, but mostly, he watches. His eyes glitter as Dean takes a break, exhales, knuckles at his tautly bloated stomach. Stupid idea to have done the buffet tonight, after a massive lunch and knowing full well that Sam was going to insist upon a midnight snack. But watching Sam's eyes, the way they drift over Dean's entire person with a casual kind of hunger as Sam just as casually plays with himself … Dean can't stop. He's beyond full and aching, pressed down by the weight of his own middle and breathing in shallow grunts, pinched in the chair as he swells overtop the arms. He tries to spread his legs though there's precious little room between the pudge of his belly and thighs. It takes effort, real effort, but he finally destroys the pie. Nothing left but crumbs. Then Sam, the fucker, takes the empty tin, sets it aside, and slips the spoon from Dean's fat fingers to begin feeding him the last of the ice-cream.

Dean whimpers. The struggle is real, because not only is he full to capacity, he's gotten hard as a rock. His over-stuffed gut _and_ his dick. Like, when he shifts even slightly and his own swollen middle crushes onto his cock, squeezed between his doughy thighs? And Sam keeps pouring the last of the melted ice-cream down his throat and he rushes to swallow? And then Sam is taking off his shirt and jeans, gloriously erect? Dean's not sure he can budge. The thought of being nigh helpless, while Sam licks the melted ice-cream off his lips and rolls his big palms over Dean's nipples, sneaks up on Dean like a thief. 

“I … I can't,” Dean wheezes. His dick twitches. God damn, but he likes this.  
“Don't worry; I can.” Sam grins ear to ear and tosses the spent vanilla carton aside. He takes Dean by both hands and it's clearly no small feat to tug him to his feet. Takes three shots, in fact, Sam huffing with the effort.

Lurching upright, Dean is almost shocked by how incredibly huge he's gotten. His center of gravity is swaying like a bolder, and he squares his legs to find balance. A groans escapes as he gingerly explores the extent of his engorged stomach. He'll never see his feet again.

Sam gently rolls his hands over Dean's flanks and guides him to the bed, already stripped of its tacky polyester bedspread. “Bend over,” he hushes against the back of Dean's neck, and Dean welcomes the support of the mattress under his gut. Sometimes, gravity is not your friend, especially when there's a week's worth of food in your belly. 

Sam slides Dean's briefs down and kneads his sizable ass cheeks, massaging and spreading before slick fingers find their way into Dean's hole. A smooth, expert slide, in and out. Dean's arms begin to tremble with anticipation and the effort of holding up his weight. Then Sam enters with something considerably larger—and longer—than three fingers. Dean feels Sam on his back, his hot breaths and hard chest, as he shoves inside with blunt and delicious force.

Each rut jostles Dean's entire body, indulgently jiggling his arms, the chub under his chin, the rock of his ponderous gut as it pours onto the mattress. Each time Sam bumps against Dean's prostate, it feels like an electric jolt, rippling through the layers of fat they've built together. Each time Sam growls his orgasm into Dean's shoulder and Dean comes all over the bed, Dean doesn't regret a single pound. Not the fat nor the wallop of Sam's hips against his ass.

Sam's fingers dig into Dean's fat as he comes, and Dean is right behind Sam with a series of “oh oh oh's” culminating in an “ahhhhhh” and he feels like his heart is gonna race out of his chest. Sweat chases down his forehead as he collapses onto the bed with a satisfied “wooooo...” The bed frame groans.

They recoup for a moment, both of them breathing heavy. “You okay, slim?” Sam says in Dean's ear, his hands still clutching fistfuls of flank. He kneads and jostles the flab teasingly, nips at the roll on the back of Dean's neck. Dean just chuckles, works on catching his breath. 

“You know what my favorite part is?” Wrapping his arms around Dean's middle, or at least trying to, Sam rolls him over. “This. All of this.”

“What?” Dean cracks one eye over the doughy mound of his gut to coax Sam to continue. He likes this part too. Sam talking. About him. He does it more and more often these days.

“I love every pound,” Sam says softly from behind his bangs. So unlike his demeanor in the field, so open. “I love how soft you've gotten. Is that weird?”

Dean ponders. “Maybe? But …” He shrugs.

“It makes me feel, I dunno, safe. And sheltered. I can't explain it. But I also love the look of it.” Sam turns to his side and props his head on a hand, all backlit angles, warm in the glow of the cheap old bedside lamp. He spreads long fingers across the middle of Dean's belly. Pushes. Grins crookedly when the mass wobbles and settles again. “It's like buttah.”

“Buttah?”

“Buttah.”

They laugh together, Dean's entire middle jostling. When the room quiets again, Sam gets thinky. He can't seem to help himself. “Hey, Dean? Can I ask you something?”

Dean just grunts affirmatively.

“You think there'll come a time we won't have to, you know, move around? When we have to stay put?”

“I … suppose?”

“Like, we already hardly hunt anymore. It's not like you can run—”

“Hey now.”

“Shut up, you hate running.”

“Fine, fine.”

“But I mean, can we just … stop?”

Dean ponders the ceiling, all the popcorn and waterstains, the weird smells and the sounds of the tv from the room next door. Mulls it over for a hot second, chewing the inside of his cheek. And he comes to a decision.

“Yeah.”

Sam blinks. “Yeah?”

Dean turns his head to look at his brother, smiling. “Yeah, Sammy. Let's stop.”

He has a plan.

**A year and a hundred pounds later...**

Another XXL shirt bites the dust, the seams splitting into little holes where bubbles of skin peek out. Victory. “Hey, Sammy!”

After a fashion, Sam pokes his head around the doorway, eyes wide, hands in oven mitts. “What? You okay?”

“Look!” Dean proudly lifts an arm, displaying the compromised seam. 

“You dumb ass,” Sam chuckles. “I thought you got stuck in a chair again.”

“I'm workin' on it,” Dean confesses under his breath. He tugs the shirt down in a vain attempt at covering his bulging expanse, and the shirt pops again. “Damn. We got something bigger?”

Sam runs his tongue over his lips, eyes sparking. “After breakfast. Might as well give the shirt a solid send-off.”

And that, they did. Dean eats until he simply can't move. His ass is already spilling over one chair onto a second, and he's long since given up zippered pants. Regardless, the sweats he'd squeezed into this morning pinch like sausage casings. He feels too stuffed for his skin as his over-full stomach punches into the edge of the table and sits like a boulder in his lap. Every time he shifts, he rips another seam, but moving isn't much of an option at the moment. It might even be a little cumbersome to breathe as the labors of his overindulgence take up the lion's share of the room in his diaphragm, and a food coma starts to set in. He leans back and exhales hard, his chairs creaking. 

Sam, ever vigilant, stands up and wordlessly pulls back the table. Dean's middle spills forward farther, his shirt sliding up. Fresh pink stretchmarks line his sides, and he suspects this meal is adding more. It's likely the most stuffed he's been in a good long while, because he wouldn't let himself stop. He wanted to show off for Sam, appreciate how good a cook Sam has become what with this lifestyle they've fallen into. He wants to out-grow the next shirt before he even puts it on. He wants to be in this moment forever.

“You massive—” Sam leans down and runs his hands over Dean's gut, and Dean moans in pleasurable discomfort, “—unchecked eating machine. You unstoppable gourmand.” Sam and his stupid 50-cent words. He plucks at the bottom of Dean's shirt and peels it upward until Dean is finally free of it, making breathing marginally easier. Sam pauses at Dean's ear and tongues the lobe. If Dean weren't dropping into a calorie-induced stupor, he'd be so turned on right now. 

“Saaaaam.” Dean groans as Sam plucks at his nipples.

“My...” Sam kisses one tit, “...favorite...” he kisses the other, “...glutton.” And then sets a kiss on the apex of Dean's distended gut.

Curling under Dean's arm, Sam coaxes Dean to his feet, which takes a bit of tugging and cajoling and it's a good thing Sam still works out. They waddle their way to the couch; it's more of a glorified loveseat, and Dean takes up most of it when Sam struggles to lower him down gently, as much to spare the furniture as to keep from jostling Dean's breakfast. He puts Dean's feet up on a worn ottoman and squeezes in next to him, turning the tv on to CNN and settling in for the late morning lull. As Dean drifts off into sleep to digest and grow his next pound or five, he smiles to himself.

They'll never leave. He's become their anchor, the ballast that keeps them rooted to this spot. This beautiful spot. Dean stifles a belch and wiggles deep into the cushions as Sam works a crossword. If Dean had his way, he might never leave _this couch_. He'll start working on that, right after this here nap...


End file.
